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he wanted to be free
of the bondage
of his own identity.

twelve words
highlighted orange
in the book a friend
gave him.
 
a dim dark room
exhausted from
the bombardment
of perceptions
from the outside word.

the best mirror
the insides of eyelids,
the anchoring of breath
the quiet solitude
of a resting ear drum,
the idle tongue,
hands folded together
into a simple mudra.

the voice in his head
never stopping
incessantly chattering:

what?
what is it you want
to say so badly?
if you’re going
to make so much noise,
demand so much attention,
then say something worthwhile.

a gentle hum.
a quiet vibration.
freedom is always near.